𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑮𝑰𝑹𝑳 | ᵍʳᵉʸˢ ᵃⁿᵃᵗᵒᵐʸ

𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙 | ²⁰⁰⁴

𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐍, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟒

It was the day of the competition, a day I had imagined so differently.

The flickering light of the dressing room reflected off the blades of my skates, which I laced with a precision that only years of routine could bring.

In my mind, there was a turbulence of hope and disappointment, a belief that the biting cold of the ice could fill the void inside me left by my father, Derek.

"Missy, it's almost time. Two minutes," my coach called, urging me forward.

As I stepped out of the cold of the dressing room and into the even colder arena, I instinctively searched for the face that wasn't there.

My eyes swept over the crowd, a sea of blurred outlines and faces, until my eyes found him - Mark, the only anchor in that murky ocean.

He stood there, leaning slightly over the barrier, a smile on his lips that seemed like a promise that all would be well. But his presence was a poor substitute for what I really wanted to see.

"You're going to be great, Missy."

But Mark's words, as warm and comforting as they were meant to be, didn't reach me.

I turned to see him standing beside me, his head tilted, his eyes full of fatherly pride that he was lending me this because my own father couldn't.

"I thought he was coming," I whispered, my voice trembling like my heart.

"I know," Mark said gently, squeezing my hand briefly. "But I'm here, Amelia is here. We're here for you."

His words were meant to be an ointment, but they burned like a disinfectant on an open wound. Addison, my mother, had stayed home, unable to face a world that knew of her betrayal and mistakes.

"I know you can do it. I've seen how hard you've worked. He would be proud."

"Would he?" My voice broke, and I turned away to hide the tears that were welling up.

"Yes, he would," Mark said with a certainty that left no room for doubt.

"Next up: Melissa Grace Shepherd, competitor number 13."

I put my skate on the glittering ice as my name echoed off the walls.

As the music began, I let the pain in and used it as fuel. With every step, every move, I told my story - of loss, of pain, but also of a strength I didn't know I had, carried within me like a precious gift.

The final pose came and I paused, breathless, as the music ended.

The applause surged, a warm sea of recognition, but I was looking for just one clap, one face that was missing. Slowly I stood up, the warmth of the bright spotlights drying the tears on my skin.

My fathers arms that had always held me weren't there when I left the ice. Neither was his familiar laugh.

I had convinced myself that he would come, that he would stand there and watch me soar-a flight he had taught me.

But the empty seats between my coach and Mark spoke a truth my heart refused to accept.

Mark greeted me with open arms, and I noticed his hands trembling. I knew he was sorry.

And even though I knew he was fifty percent responsible for Dad's absence, I couldn't hate him.

"I'm done, Mark," I said, my voice icy as my fingers forcefully loosened the tightly knotted laces. "I'm quitting."

I left him without waiting for his reaction and headed for the dressing rooms, each step heavier than the last.

"What!? No, Missy, you can't just..." he called after me, but I kept walking, leaving him and his unspoken words behind.

In the dressing room, alone with the echo of the applause, I allowed myself to breathe, to feel.
I had won the applause, but at what cost?

Without my Dad, without the feeling that he was out there somewhere waiting for me, it all felt like a perfectly choreographed lie.

That was the moment I decided to retire from the ice, the only place that ever felt like home.